Delicious
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Multi-chapter. Inspired by the trailer to the film of the same title starring Loo Brealey (who plays Molly). Starts in "The Great Game," but goes AU from there. Sherlock's cruelty pushes Molly further and further to the breaking point, bringing back a demon she thought she had beaten. Will he be able to help her fight it, or help it conquer her? Rated T for possible triggers.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

When Molly walked back into the pathology lab of St. Bart's, she was greeted by two sounds: the computer's beeping that indicated a search was complete, and Sherlock's satisfied exclamation.

The combined sounds were more than enough to make her smile and put a spring in her step. "Any luck?" she asked as she made her way into the large room.

"Oh, yes!" said Sherlock in satisfaction, briefly turning his eyes from the computer screen to meet hers in an excited, conspiratorial gaze.

It was during moments like this that Molly loved him the most. This was when he was truly in his element: working on a case, absorbed in the task at hand, his concentration wholly focused where it needed to be. He really was an extraordinary human being; this was the thought that Molly would always have in moments like this. But her heart always filled up just a bit more in moments like this: when he had come a step closer to the solution, and his glee could rival that of any child winning a game.

Molly eagerly made her way over to Sherlock, so she could see the results of the search. These cases excited her just as much as it excited Sherlock, and she loved that she could make a contribution to his efforts, however small. She vaguely noticed his friend (what was his name?) move out of the way for her silently.

But just then, the door to the lab opened again, and a familiar voice said in an embarrassed tone, "Oh, sorry, I didn't…"

Looking up, Molly saw that it was Jim, hovering in the open door looking both awkward at barging in, but curious when his eyes landed on Sherlock and his friend.

"Jim! Hi!" Molly exclaimed in both surprise and slight embarrassment, her voice getting slightly higher in pitch, as though she had just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar – which was, in fact, true. Though she was dating Jim, Molly couldn't deny to herself that she still held a roaring flame for Sherlock, though she tried to every moment of every day.

Eager to make things clear to everybody, especially herself, Molly waved him towards her, saying, "Come in! Come in!"

She did not notice Sherlock giving Jim that look of his that sized a person up completely. Though his expression remained neutral, his eyes were sharp and cold as ice.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," she said as Jim made his way over to them. Though her tone was polite and courteous, she felt a sinking feeling begin to seep in when she saw that Sherlock had turned back to his microscope.

"Ah," said Jim, looking at the detective in recognition.

Not wanting to be impolite, Molly turned to Sherlock's friend. "And, uh…sorry…" Molly tried to recall the man's name, but it wouldn't come to her. She'd only ever seen him two or three times with Sherlock, once on the day that Mike Stamford had introduced the two of them. All she really knew was that they were flatmates, and it must have been going well or else this man would not be anywhere near here.

"John Watson, hi," said the man without enthusiasm. He looked somehow weary; perhaps he and Sherlock'd had a disagreement just before she came in.

"Hi," returned Jim, before turning his attention back to Sherlock. The detective was still wholly focused on his microscope, so Jim addressed the back of his neck. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

Molly kept a friendly smile on her face, even though Jim's last words caused her to feel both embarrassment and guilt. _I really do gush on about him, don't I? But what else in my life is half as interesting as this man and what he brings with him? And Jim never seems to mind; he loves hearing about him as much as I like talking about him! So what's the harm?_

Jim walked away from Molly, past John, and to Sherlock's other side slowly, looking at the evidence sprawled out around Sherlock curiously. Eager to save face after her last train of thought, Molly piped up, "Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," she ended on an awkward chuckle, while inwardly cursing herself that she had let _that _expression slip from her nervous tongue.

Sherlock took one brief look at Jim before turning back to his microscope and saying one word: "Gay."

All traces of a smile or chuckle brought on by nervous awkwardness faded from Molly at that word; though it had been muttered quietly, to her it had sounded loud and clear. "Sorry, what?" she asked, no trace of a stutter or humor in her voice now.

Sherlock lifted his gaze from his microscope again and turned to Jim. "Nothing, um, hey," he said, giving Jim a pleasant grin that looked like he was about to eat rotten cheese. But Jim didn't seem to notice or care about the latter detail. "Hi," he said shyly, just before accidently knocking a Petri dish onto the floor. The noise echoed brutally in the large lab. "Sorry, sorry!" he said, picking it up again.

Molly closed her eyes and turned her head in complete embarrassment. Sherlock was _not _going to be happy about that, and who would he dump his frustration on? _Good old me._

"Well, I'd better be off," said Jim, making his way back over to her. "I'll see you at the Fox, about 6:00-ish?"

The mention of her favorite pub caused Molly's spirits to lift somewhat. Of their two dates so far, she knew that Jim had much preferred the one where he had chosen the location: a loud and noisy dance club with lots of neon lights. She found the gesture he was making now very sweet. "Yeah," she replied as Jim put a hand on her back affectionately.

"It was nice to meet you," said Jim to Sherlock, who was once again focused on his microscope. An awkward moment of silence passed before John Watson said, "You, too," since Sherlock wouldn't.

Molly inwardly groaned at this awkward encounter, eager for it to be over. Jim just gave an embarrassed smile, gave her arm a light caress, and then silently made his way out of the lab.

But a moment after the door had shut loudly behind him, Molly addressed Sherlock in a pleasantly confused tone rather than an accusatory one, Jim's gesture and sweet caresses still lingering in her mind and soothing her fears. "What do you mean, gay? We're together!" She somewhat lamely made a hand gesture to emphasize her point.

As she spoke, Sherlock slowly lifted his head up and turned his head to her. The gaze he gave Molly was so quick that most people wouldn't think it more than a glance. But Molly knew better, and felt the gaze sweep over her like the strongest radar. When he spoke, his tone was soft, cold, condescending, and taunting.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly – you've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

* * *

John knew immediately, from the moment Sherlock had called Jim from IT "gay" that trouble was inevitable. Though he was getting more and more used to the way that Sherlock behaved with other people, that didn't mean he had to like it. Truth be told, he hadn't really paid too much attention to the awkward meet-and-greet that had just occurred. His thoughts were occupied on the current case, and the haunting sound of the woman in distress he, Sherlock, and Lestrade had heard on the phone Sherlock had been given. But hearing Sherlock out the man caused him to wake up a bit – this could only mean trouble for the poor girl.

When Sherlock made the comment about her weight, John felt his entire stomach drop. _How stupid can he be? _It hadn't taken long in his experience with women to know that weight comments were never – and I mean _never _– a smart move, no matter how good the intentions were.

And it was clear that Sherlock had no good intentions whatsoever when he said that to Molly.

The poor girl looked as though she had been slapped. Her eyes became brighter, her jaw became tighter, and her whole body tensed up. She was glaring at Sherlock as if she would like nothing more than to ram his head against the microscope he had turned his attention back to.

"Two and a half," she practically snarled, her small hands curling into fists.

Sherlock pretended to consider without looking up. "Well, three."

_Not good, very not good, _thought John as he witnessed this. "Sherlock…" he began, hoping to abate an inevitable storm, but then the little pathologist seemed to snap a little.

"He's not gay!" she exclaimed at Sherlock, a note of desperation mixing in with the anger and hurt already in her tone. "Why do you have to spoil…he's not!" She turned a quick glance to John, as if begging for help.

Sherlock let out a snort and looked up from the lens, though not turning to look at either of them. "With that level of personal grooming?" he said in amusement.

Wanting to help the poor girl, John stepped towards Sherlock and argued, "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? _I _put product in my hair!"

Sherlock smiled at that and said, "You _wash _your hair, there's a difference," in a tone that said _Oh, please, spare me, _in amused exasperation. With that he began his deductions: "No, no, tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubbers' eyes." His gaze turned back to the pathologist at that last one. "And then there's his underwear."

Now Molly looked horrified. "His _underwear_?" she said to Sherlock.

His gaze remained on her as he continued on. "Visible above the waistline, _very _visible. Very particular brand." He turned to the Petri dish that Jim had knocked over and pulled out a scrap of paper that had not been underneath it previously. "That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here…"

John, who had been standing with his arms folded during this deduction, lowered his head in defeat at this last fact with an exasperated sigh. But Sherlock wasn't finished, and his last words caused John to look back at the poor girl at the receiving end.

"…and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain," he finished, waving the piece of paper before her. His tone lacked any kind of empathy, and only held cold finality.

Looking at Molly, John was now the one who wanted to slam Sherlock's head against the microscope. The poor girl had visible tears shining in her eyes, and her jaw was shut so tightly John could see the bones in her neck sticking out. The way she looked at his flatmate John could only describe as…well, if a look could say "_Fuck you_," it was the look that Molly was giving Sherlock.

For a moment, it looked as though she might tell him that with words as well as looks, but then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the lab. John could see that her lip was trembling before she was out of sight.

Sherlock's reaction was to get a look on his face similar to a little boy who had really upset his mummy and had no idea how.

John shook his head slightly. He really didn't know the young pathologist, so he didn't feel it to be his place to run after her and try to give comfort – that and the fact that Sherlock's deductions were brutally true. But he did know that the poor girl, who seemed so devoted and hopelessly head-over-heels for Sherlock (_God help her_), did _not _deserve that kind of cruelty.

"Charming, well done," he said both casually and sarcastically.

Sherlock's expression became confused as he looked at John. "Just…saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"_Kind_?" said John, squaring up to Sherlock with his arms still crossed. "No, no, Sherlock, _that –_" His eyes went to the place Molly had stood before returning to Sherlock. "– wasn't kind."

* * *

Molly saw everything through metaphorical, blood-red spectacles as she stormed into the locker room. She paced back and forth, holding her fists tight to her sides so she would not hit anything. When she finally tripped over something she hadn't seen because of the tears in her eyes, she dragged herself to one of the benches and sat down. She held her shaking hands tightly together as tears spilled down her cheeks.

_How can he be so…so…_

_ What? Heartless? Cruel? Everyone else thinks that about him, and perhaps you've just been proven they were right._

_ But maybe doesn't know about – _

_ Doesn't know? Oh, please! He probably read it on your face every time you ate something in the lab! You know how much he can see when he looks at a person, and after knowing you for three years, of course he would have learned it by now, even if he thinks of you as a doormat._

_ But with Jim…maybe he was just being a friend by telling me – _

_ A friend wouldn't have been so cruel by saying that about your weight when he knows your history._

_ …At least his new friend seems nice…Perhaps he'll be a good influence on Sherlock…_

_ One man can't stop an avalanche, Molly._

Her head was beginning to pound from what had just happened, keeping her sobs at bay, and the ongoing debate she was having with herself. _Pull yourself together, _she thought. _Not at work. Save it for home, when you can soak in a hot bath and watch telly._

Molly got up from the bench and went to her locker. She opened it, and pulled out some tissues and a bottle of Excedrin. After taking two for her head and wiping her face, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her face clearly showed she had been crying, and she couldn't bear to go back in that lab and face that…But she also wouldn't hide in this locker room, especially since she had no idea how long they would be in there. So, she resolved to just walk right into her office, shut the door, and work on paperwork until her shift ended.

And after her shift, she would meet up with Jim and break things off. Despite the cruelty, she knew that Sherlock was right. _Break it off now, and save yourself the pain…_

Molly snorted. Save herself the pain? Knowing Sherlock Holmes made that task absolutely impossible.

Looking at herself in the full-length mirror, her eyes couldn't help but glance over her body, trying to tell how he had picked up on the three pounds. Her pants were too baggy for it to be the thighs…_Stop this! Don't do this to yourself! Do go back there!_

Another temptation reared when, in the mirror's reflection, she saw the sign that pointed to the loo.

_**No.**__ I haven't resisted for fifteen years to chuck it all away now._


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Not even a week had passed until Molly's least favorite day of the year came knocking on her door. Thankfully, Mike Stamford always made sure she had this day off to do what she felt she needed to do on the anniversary of her father's death. On this day, she always traveled to her hometown, which was a small hamlet called Clovernook, just a few miles from Reading. Here was where she had been born and raised – and where her family was buried: father, mother, brother. Every year, on the anniversary of her father's death, she would go to Clovernook for the day and, among other things, lay flowers on the graves of her family.

Molly always felt like shit on this day, even when the weather was perfect or she was in a good place in her life. Today, neither of those things were true: cold rain had been falling all day, and she was recently single since breaking things off with Jim not even a week ago. She didn't regret the decision, by any means; Jim had been very nice about it, and admitted that his true interests laid elsewhere, but thought he had felt something different for her. The fact that they had parted on good terms only made her feel worse; the one nice guy that wasn't creeped out by her work or association with the detective turned out to be gay. Just her luck.

To top everything off, her menstrual cycle had started off that morning and was still going strong with the terrible cramps that felt like a tiger had slashed her insides. No, today was not a good day for Molly Hooper.

Close to midnight, she lay curled in a fetal position in her bed. A hot water bottle was pressed to her abdomen, and a blanket was covering her from chin to toe. Toby was curled up on top of the pillow beside her like a faithful bodyguard. Molly herself lay somewhere between the land of exhausted consciousness and light sleep. All she wanted was to have a long, deep, and dreamless sleep to give her new energy for the next day, when she could appreciate beauty again after this day of mourning.

But that wasn't about to happen any time soon.

Molly was roused from her fitful sleep by the sound of someone pounding on her door and then forcing it open. If her body had been in a better state, she would have immediately jumped out of bed and grabbed the nearest thing that could pass for a weapon. However, all she had the strength to do was slowly prop herself up on an elbow and pray she was not about to be assaulted.

Thankfully, Molly found out in the next moment that this wouldn't be the case when she heard none other than Sherlock call, "_Molly_!"

"Sherlock?" she said in complete confusion, her mind still clouded with sleep, exhaustion and discomfort.

In the next moment, he was standing in her open doorway. In the light of the moon, Molly caught a glimpse of an expression she never thought she would ever see on his face: _terror. _But in the next moment, it was gone, to be replaced by a more familiar expression: coldness mixed with annoyance, even anger. "Why didn't you answer the door?"

"I was sleeping," answered Molly. "And…well –"

"Ah, I see by the hot water bottle poking out from the blanket that you are going through menstrual cramps," said Sherlock clinically. "Still, they are not incapacitating, Molly, your reactions should be much sharper."

Her face a burning crimson at what Sherlock had just said, Molly bit her lip and took a deep breath before saying, "What are you doing here, Sherlock? What is so urgent that you need to break into my flat?"

"Ah, yes," said Sherlock, who now stood in his customary stance with his hands clasped behind his back, slowly walking around the room, his eyes taking everything in. Molly felt her humiliation rise, knowing that he was deducing everything about her from the state of her room, from the dirty laundry hamper that was nearly overflowing to the old novels on her bedside table. She braced herself for the worst, but the worst she never could have seen coming.

"Your boyfriend's been a bit naughty. Jim from IT has just revealed himself to be James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mastermind of the age; the Napoleon of crime, if you will. He's revealed himself to me by employing a cabbie to trick people into a game that always ends in suicide and tricking innocent civilians into being suicide bombers, with John being the latest victim."

"W-w-w-_what_?" was all that poor Molly could manage to blurt out in her terror and shock. _This can't be happening…_"I-Is he –"

"We both managed to get away by a very lucky phone call placed to Moriarty that distracted him," said Sherlock carelessly, but his tone and his gaze on her were cold. "John insisted that I inform you about his true nature so that you would break things off, as I suggested you do when he was only gay in my eyes. Now, that could be true or not, seeing as how he is a brilliant psychopath and master of deception, but the bottom line is this: he was never interested in you and only used you to get to me. He knew he would be able to learn a lot about me from you, because your pathetic crush on me causes you to speak of almost little else, so I'm sure you gave him plenty of information that he wanted. So, for the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

And with that, Sherlock turned on his heel, left her bedroom, and left her apartment after carelessly slamming the front door.

For about thirty seconds after the consulting detective's sudden departure, Molly sat there on her bed, completely still, barely breathing, and tears streaming down her face. Or had they already started streaming down her face as Sherlock had spoken? What did it matter? She had always been pathetic in his eyes…and now, a traitor.

She had really gushed about him to Jim when they had been together…on her very own sofa watching episodes of "Glee"…while he had put his arm around her…the criminal mastermind of the century…

Molly's urge to scream was drowned by a sudden and powerful wave of nausea. She threw her hot water bottle to the floor and ran into the bathroom, kneeling before the toilet. But all she could do was dry-heave until she collapsed onto the cold tiles in powerful sobs that shook her body like an earthquake.

_What have I done? What kind of a monster am I?_

The wave of despair that swept over Molly was too powerful to resist or avoid. She was already emotionally vulnerable and drained because of the day, and the news she had just received – especially how she had received it from him – and everything that had led up to it – Jim from IT, breaking it off, Sherlock's comments about her weight – only served to launch an avalanche too powerful to stop.

So, when she had no more sobs left in her, Molly pushed herself back up on her knees, looking into the toilet bow. She had never hated herself more than when she shoved two fingers as far down her throat as she could.

* * *

Sherlock had intended to go straight back to Baker Street after informing Molly of Jim from IT's true identity, but found that, though he could not stop walking, all he was doing was circling her building, over and over again, looking for any possible way that an intruder could break into her flat. His logical reasoning was the same reasoning he had used for racing to her flat the moment he and John had escaped from that pool: it would be too much effort to find a new pathologist and lab technician who would tolerate him. Best not lose what he already had.

His heart, however, stormed and raged that this was not the true reason; his conscience, which had John's voice, told him the same thing. But Sherlock was not yet wise enough to understand his heart or truly listen to his conscience.

It would take something truly devastating for that to happen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

_The Personal Blog of _

_Dr. John H. Watson_

_The Geek Interpreter_

_Three young men came to Baker St claiming – _

"_The Geek Interpreter_? What's that?" asked Sherlock, leaning down over John's shoulder, staring at the laptop screen in confusion.

"It's the title," replied John, not looking at the detective, his mind still on the entry he was about to make.

"What's it need a title for?"

John couldn't help but smile at that. He was reminded of how Sherlock was so ignorant about things that he did not deem important to his worth, such as the solar system and the structure of a story. Sherlock walked away with a roll of his eyes.

As John typed up his latest entry, absorbed in his memories and recollection, he did not notice how Sherlock was becoming more and more restless with every passing moment. It wasn't until he heard the click of his gun being prepared for firing that he was made aware of the current situation.

"Oh, no, not again!" exclaimed John, shutting his laptop. He got up, and managed to wrestle the gun out of Sherlock's hand without much struggle. He quickly removed the bullets (silently vowing to keep them out of the gun unless on a dangerous case), saying, "Sherlock, you have _got _to find some way to deal with boredom that doesn't put us and our flat in mortal danger!"

Sherlock merely scowled in response and threw himself on the couch, curling up with his back to John.

Exhaling, John seated himself back into his armchair and faced the detective. "All right, what's going on?"

Silence.

"Sherlock, if you're bored, why don't you just go to St. Bart's and do some experiments? That's what you always used to do during the day."

"Out of the question."

John's eyebrows rose at that. "The cadavers suddenly become zombies and destroy the lab?"

"Don't say stupid things, John."

"Then tell me why you don't go there nearly as often as you used to."

This was true. It had been two months since the confrontation with Moriarty by the pool. John remembered the aftermath of that as clearly as the event itself. Once they had been safely out of danger, Sherlock had rushed off without a word to John. Once the doctor had returned to the safety of Baker Street, he had sent Sherlock an angry text all in caps demanding where he was. The only reply he got was that the detective would be home by morning. Thankfully, that had proven true; Sherlock did not seem physically injured or altered in any way, except perhaps for the dark circles under his eyes.

Looking back at the two months that had passed since then, John realized fully how careful Sherlock was around St. Bart's now. He never went there in his spare time anymore, even to pick up body parts. Sherlock would only go there for a case, and even then only at certain times during the day or night.

Because Sherlock gave no response to the question, John was left to figure out a reasonable explanation.

* * *

_I should be used to this feeling by now…_

Molly lay on her bed, looking up at the ceiling and counting every tiny crack in the white paint. Her hands clutched her stomach, clenching when the feeling intensified. That feeling of her stomach eating itself. _Perhaps it is…_

She knew that she needed a distraction. Laying on her bed, she considered her other options:

Read a book…_No, my imagination won't be enough to drown out the feeling of my stomach rebelling against me._

Listen to music…_No. If I listen to loud music, I won't be able to sit still, and energetic movements make me dizzy. If I listen to slow music, I'll only become even more depressed._

Watch telly…_No. I don't trust my body not to do something stupid if I get up right now._

Help Sherlock with an experiment…_No…I haven't seen him in two months, because I betrayed him and he hates me now._

As Molly went through her list of non-existent options, she was saved by her iPhone chiming on her bedside table. She reached out, unplugged the charger, and looked at the alert. It was a reminder that her shift started in half an hour.

Happy to have the distraction she had so longed for, Molly smiled and got off the bed. But once on her feet, dizziness nearly overwhelmed her. She managed to sit back down on the bed and take a few deep breaths to clear her head.

Blatantly ignoring her stomach (which hadn't let up at all), Molly got to her feet more slowly and carefully this time. She had work to do.

* * *

John couldn't come up with a reasonable theory about why Sherlock avoided St. Bart's now for about a half an hour. Once he'd had his lunch (kindly provided by Mrs. Hudson, who liked to make sure that there were edible items for John around), he was able to think with more energy. Thinking of St. Bart's, his thoughts drifted to the petite pathologist who assisted Sherlock in the lab called Molly. Moriarty had used her to get to Sherlock. The morning after the pool confrontation, John had blatantly ordered Sherlock to see if Molly was all right and to inform her of "Jim from IT"s true nature. He had carelessly replied that he had already taken care of it.

Could Molly be the reason why Sherlock was avoiding St. Bart's? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. On the few occasions that the two of them would go to Bart's, she would not be there. Was Sherlock purposefully going there only when she was not there? Was that why he could only go there on certain times and certain days?

Only one explanation came to John's mind as to why she would be the reason, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Sherlock," he addressed to the figure still sulking on the couch, this time staring at the ceiling. "Is this about Molly? Why you don't go to Bart's anymore?"

The consulting detective gave him a momentary look of surprise, but it was more than enough for John, who became angry.

"Oh, Sherlock, how can you blame her for this mess?"

Now, when Sherlock looked at John – more like glared – it stayed on John. It was truly shocked and indignant. "Excuse me?"

"How could she possibly have known that 'Jim from IT' was a criminal mastermind. Hell, not even _you _could figure it out when you met the man! So how can you have expected _her _to figure it out? Blimey, Sherlock! How stupid can you –"

Sherlock got up onto his feet in one quick jump that made John nearly jump. Sherlock went and grabbed their coats. "Come on, we're going to Bart's."

John could only put on his coat and follow Sherlock out in astonishment. _Sherlock had actually _listened _to him? Is the world ending today?_

* * *

He was not going there to apologize to Molly. That's what he kept telling himself. All he wanted to do was to make it perfectly clear to her that he in no way blamed her for anything that Moriarty had done. It would clear the air between them, that was all. He would no longer find the thought of facing her…he couldn't find a word for it. Awkward was too small, and terrifying was too big. Perhaps intimidating, but that would just couldn't apply to his Molly.

Did he just think "his Molly"? He only meant that she was the pathologist he worked with, the only one he would work with, therefore that would make her "his pathologist." As for why he had avoided her for the past two months, Sherlock could only conclude that he did not like the feelings he would get in his chest and stomach when he looked at her; also, the last image he had of her – sitting up in bed with silent tears streaming down her terrified face – was one he would see much more clearly if he were to see her.

Of course he hadn't thought it wise to see her in those circumstances; it would distract him from his work. Then again, only coming into St. Bart's at certain times to avoid seeing her was even more detrimental to his work in the long-term. And since when had he ever let feelings overpower his mind? Molly was not about to destroy all of the work he had done in that area. How _could _she?

It was time to clear up this entire matter and continue on as they always had. Enough is enough.

This was his thought process on the cab ride to St. Bart's. He didn't look at John the whole ride there, because if he did, he would hear his John conscience telling him that the main reason he wanted to see Molly right away was to reassure her that he didn't, and had never, blamed her for anything that had happened.

* * *

Sherlock knew she was working this afternoon; he always knew when she was working. Because he needed to know when she would be available to assist him, of course. Perfectly logical.

When Sherlock and John arrived in the pathology wing of the hospital, John stopped, causing Sherlock to stop in annoyance.

"I'm going to the canteen to get us all some coffee," said John firmly. "It'll give you the chance to apologize and clear the air. And you'd better do it, or you'll answer to me. I may not know her very well, but I do know that anybody willing to put up with you for this long deserves a sainthood. And yeah, I _do _include myself in that category."

With that, John turned on his heel and left for the canteen. Sherlock stood there for a moment and went over what John had said. _Perhaps an apology _would _help things to move on more smoothly. But I will wait until John's return, so he can advise me on how best to apologize so we can all go back to normal. And I will start with asking for a fresh liver. I've been meaning to conduct an experiment on one for some time…_

Feeling much more confident and sure of himself, Sherlock strolled through the pathology wing to find his pathologist.

Not finding her in the lab or her office, Sherlock strode into the morgue as he usually did: like he owned the place. He saw Molly at the large sinks, drying off her hands after no doubt performing an autopsy on one of the five occupants of the black bags on her slabs.

If he had been paying more attention to them and not her back, he would have noticed that all five of them were too small to be adults. If he hadn't been so focused on his task at hand, he would have noticed that she wasn't wiping her cheeks to scratch an itch.

"Good afternoon, Molly," he said in his most pleasant tone. She turned around in shock at the sound of his voice. He chose not to look too closely, for then he wouldn't have been able to ignore his pounding chest and sinking stomach. "I noticed you've just finished some autopsies, so surely one of their livers would not be missed, so if you would be so –"

_SLAP!_

It happened so quickly that Sherlock didn't even realize what had happened for five seconds. Then he realized that he was looking to the right rather than at Molly, and that his cheek stung, burned, and felt cold as ice. Slowly, his neck turned his head until he was looking back at Molly.

There was fire in her tear-filled brown eyes. The words that she spoke grew from a hateful whisper to a fierce scream, her chest heaving more heavily as she went on.

_"Who do you think you are? Waltzing in here after two months of avoiding me like the plague as if nothing happened? Decided to use your hate for me to make me into even more of your slave? Well, I'm sorry that I didn't see Jim for what he is, I really am and always will be, but if even _you _couldn't spot him for what he was right away, you can hardly blame me, can you? You can't even see that those body bags hold children that died in a bush crash this morning, so forgive me if I don't feel it right to let you tear their guts out while their shattered parents are in the waiting room! I already blame myself entirely for Jim, even though I shouldn't, because you're attached to my heart like a tick, and I'm working on losing those three pounds, so I don't think you can shove me any lower into the dirt, Sherlock. NOW GET OUT!"_

On the last three words that came out in a screech, Molly shoved Sherlock in the chest, causing him to stagger back at least two steps. She then turned her back on him, one hand at her face and another at her chest as her body shook with sobs.

Sherlock didn't even know that he had run from her until he heard the morgue doors shut behind him. He was too in shock.

Two things he never expected Molly Hooper to do had just happened: she had shouted at him, and she had assaulted him. In other words, she had lashed out at him in every sense. His cheek burned from where she slapped him, and his chest felt bruised from where she had shoved him.

Why had he run? He was never afraid to face or take down anybody, even Moriarty. Why had he run from Molly?

_Because that wasn't my Molly. Her skin was too pale and taut over her bones. The circles under her eyes were too big. Her ponytail was sloppy, and her clothes were even baggier than usual. She was too small, too thin, too emaciated…no spark, no ready smile, no warmth…all cold and hot and fierce and hurt and angry and betrayed…_

John arriving back carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits barely brought Sherlock out of his shock. The good doctor could see immediately that something was very wrong. "What's happened?"

_What has happened to her…Think! She is in there crying right now…wait…those weren't sobs I heard, they were gasps…and the way her body was convulsing…like she couldn't get any air._

Sherlock turned back to the lab doors just as a sound reached the men's ears through the morgue doors: the sound of a body collapsing onto a cold floor like a sack of potatoes.

When they ran into the cold morgue, their senses of hearing were proved unfortunately accurate.

"MOLLY!"

Sherlock had never run faster in his life than when he ran across the morgue to the tiny body of Molly Hooper collapsed, unconscious and frail, on the cold floor of the morgue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

Of all the things that John Watson thought that he would never see, it was Sherlock Holmes completely terrified. John had only caught a glimpse of terror in Sherlock once before, and that was two months ago when he saw the doctor had a bomb strapped to his chest. Then, Sherlock had only shown that terror in his eyes. Now, he did not hold it back from his face or actions.

The detective reached the unconscious woman before the doctor did. The taller man got down on his knees by her, pressing his fingers to her neck and lowering his face near hers. A moment later, his head shot back up, and his terror-filled eyes met John's. "She's not breathing, John – save her!"

In that moment, Sherlock looked no older than a terrified child.

This was all it took for John to snap into action. High-stress, life-and-death situations were where John worked and thrives; this was his element. John proceeded to give Molly CPR; Sherlock, thankfully, did not interfere and let John do his job. Thankfully, it took less than thirty seconds to get Molly breathing again, but she would not wake up.

"We've got to get her to the ER, Sherlock," said John. "She could have a concussion from falling like that."

Without a word, Sherlock got to his feet and picked up Molly, cradling her to his chest as tenderly as a parent would their child. John led the way out of the morgue, through the hospital, and to the ER. Sherlock's shouting brought two nurses pushing a gurney to them right away, and Sherlock laid Molly very gently down on it. "She's had a panic attack, fallen, possible concussion from that."

John sharply turned his head to Sherlock. _Panic attack? How did he – oh, never mind._

Sherlock only had eyes for the petite pathologist lying on the gurney. "Save her…heal her…find her…" he breathed to himself as the nurses rolled her away through the doors, leaving Sherlock and John in the waiting room.

They had not been gone more than three seconds before Sherlock had turned on his heel and made for the exit. "Sherlock, what the hell!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock made no reply, but left without a word, going too fast for John to catch up. In the next moment, he was gone.

* * *

Molly woke up slowly, not quite comprehending what reality she was in as she did so. The first sounds she heard were the soft beepings and whirrings of monitors in hospital rooms, and the bed that she was lying in was certainly not her own. _I must be in a hospital room, then, but how…_.Her eyes opened and her groggy vision cleared. She was, indeed, lying in a hospital room on a hospital bed. Looking to her left, she saw the monitors that she had heard waking up. She also saw that she was hooked up to an IV, which was pumping a clear liquid into her. When she turned her head to the right, she gave a soft gasp. Sitting in a chair near her bed was Sherlock's flat mate and best friend, John Watson.

Her gasp made him look up from the medical journal he had been reading, and he gave her a kind and relieved smile as he set it down. "Hello, Molly," he said. "Glad you're back in the land of the living."

"Um…how long have I been out?" she asked, her voice dry.

John poured a glass of water on the nightstand. "A little under two hours, I think." He handed the glass to Molly.

As she drank the cool liquid, the memories came back to her of what must have brought her here. "Oh, God…the morgue, I'm still on shift!"

"Shh, don't worry," said John soothingly. "I called Mike as soon as we brought you in, telling him what happened. He's finishing your shift for you, and then he's going to come up here."

Molly slowly nodded before a despairing, defeated expression came over her. "It was a panic attack, wasn't it?" she asked softly, tears of loathing coming to her eyes.

She heard John sigh and move his chair until he sat right beside the bed. "It would seem so…Can you tell me what happened, Molly? I mean…I know how he can be with people, but I never thought he could be so cruel as to…"

His voice faded when Molly laughed without humor, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes when she closed them. "No, it's…" she began, wiping away the drops before speaking, opening her eyes to look at the good doctor. "The opposite…I had just finished five autopsies, all children who had died in a bus crash. I was finishing washing up when he strolled in how he always strolls into a room – like he owns the place – and asked for a liver from one of them."

John groaned and swiped a hand over his face.

"I kind of…lost it at that. I slapped him across the face and just…_screamed _at him before shoving him and ordering him out."

John looked at her again, his eyes wide with both shock and admiration. He chuckled. "_Wow…_good for you! He deserved that."

Molly managed a half-hearted smile before averting her eyes to the ceiling. "Wasn't the wisest thing to do in that moment, though…he walked out, I couldn't breathe, got dizzy, and…next thing I know, I'm here."

All traces of humor disappeared from John's face as he listened to Molly, his expression becoming both serious and worried. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched her right forearm, causing her to look back at him.

"Molly," he began, choosing his words carefully in a reassuring voice. "I know that we don't really know each other, but, in my opinion, we belong in the same club. That would be the 'Those Who Tolerate Sherlock Holmes' Club, and we need to look out for each other."

Molly gave a watery laugh, and John smiled before being serious again.

"The point is, I'm here for you. I'd like to be your friend and help you any way I can. Is there anyone I can call?"

Molly sighed and closed her eyes. "No…" she said softly. "All my family's gone…and I've no one else close enough to call."

A strong wave of empathy swept over John upon hearing this. Another thing they had in common then: this was another person alone in the world – until Sherlock Holmes had come along and made life a lot more interesting, for better or worse. John felt himself grow even more determined to help her in any way he could.

"Molly…I've spoken to the ER doctor that treated you," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "According to the height-weight scale, you're more than a bit underweight…and he strongly suspects that your panic attack was brought on by both stress…and starvation."

The young pathologist's eyes stayed closed, but her lower lip trembled. She took a deep breath in through her teeth, and it seemed to calm her enough to speak and not sob. "Two months…that's how long…and not since I was sixteen have I let myself…I thought I had beaten it for good…but then the whole thing with Jim…" Molly's eyes flew open and she looked at John in alarm. "Sherlock said that he forced you to wear a bomb. Please tell me you weren't hurt."

If the situation were not so serious, John would have laughed. Molly was lying in a hospital bed after having a panic attack brought on by stress and starvation, and was asking _him _if he was alright? _Yep, Sherlock's a right idiot. _"We both managed to get out unharmed, Molly, but if we hadn't it wouldn't be your fault! Not even the world's only consulting detective could spot Moriarty for –"

"I know, I know!" cried Molly, covering her face with her hands. "I keep telling myself that, but it's hard to believe it when Sherlock made it clear to me that it was my fault when he told me about Jim – I mean, Moriarty."

"Wait," said John, holding up a hand in disbelief. "Did he tell you that it was your fault? Those words?"

Molly rolled her eyes a bit. "He said that Moriarty learned so much about him because I love to talk about him – unfortunately, that's true – and after that, I don't see or hear from him until today. What other explanation is there than he blames me?"

Unfortunately, this one stumped John. He couldn't think of another reason why Sherlock would say that and then completely avoid her. But even so… "It _has _to be something else, Molly. Today, when I asked if he was avoiding Bart's because he felt angry with you, he immediately got his coat on and said we would go there, so we did."

"So he could ask if he could steal a liver from a dead child?" Molly deadpanned.

John heaved a sigh of frustration. "I _ordered _him to apologize. That's why I didn't come in with him; I went to get some coffee for us all so he could clear the air with you. Obviously, I should have been there…Oh, Molly, I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't you go blaming yourself now," said Molly, patting his own arm. "I've been doing that enough."

He nodded and sighed. "If you hadn't seen him in two months, he must've told you about Jim right after it happened."

"He said that you sent him to tell me," said Molly, nodding.

John gave her his full attention when he heard that, looking at her alertly and with surprise. "He told you that?"

Molly now looked very confused. "You…you didn't?"

"No, not until the next day. After we got out of the pool room, Sherlock disappeared into the night without a word, and didn't come back until the next morning. When I told him that he needed to tell you about Moriarty, he said he'd already taken care of it."

Both were now left sitting in confused silence about why Sherlock had both lied and behaved in the way he had when a gentle knock on the open door brought both of their attention to it. There stood Mike Stamford, in a white coat and gentle smile. "Hello, John. How are you doing, Molly? You've given us quite a scare."

"Oh, Mike, I'm so sorry," said Molly imploringly as her boss walked into the room. "I promise, this will never happen again."

Stamford held up a hand to quiet her; his expression remained gentle. "Molly, you are the most dedicated, hard-working and brilliant pathologist I have ever had under my employ here. While that is an incredible asset and credit to us here, more than once I have thought you work too hard. You're always willing to work any holiday or graveyard shift when others can't, and while that's admirable, I've been afraid something like this would eventually happen from both working too hard and how much you deal with Sherlock Holmes." Molly flinched at this, but Mike kept going in a reassuring, gentle manner. "So, as of this moment, you're going to take some time off. Put those vacation days you haven't used since you've been hired to good use at last. Take a week, a month, or more if need be to get your strength back. St. Bartholomew's Pathology Department would be lost without you."

Molly had listened to all of this with wide eyes, the expression in them turning from frightened to immense relief the more she listened. She took a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath before opening them. When she did, there was a calm and resolute look in the brown orbs that brought great relief to both men.

"Thank you, Mike. You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing that. As for the offer, I'd like a month of leave, but only if I can be spared that long."

Stamford nodded, smiling. "Of course; I wouldn't make this offer if I couldn't spare you now, Molly. Are you sure you don't need more time?"

"Right now I think a month will be enough, but I'll let you know if I end up needing more time." She offered a small smile. "I really appreciate this, Mike. I promise that when I come back, I will be back to 100%."

"I know I can trust you, Molly," said Stamford with a nod. "Well, I'd best be going. See you later, John, and get well soon, Molly." He then walked out of the room.

John turned his gaze back to Molly, who did the same with him. "How long are they keeping me here?" she asked, her voice more peaceful than it had been before.

"The doctor wants to keep you overnight, just to make sure you don't have a concussion from falling," replied John.

Molly nodded before narrowing her eyes a bit. "We?"

"Yeah," John exhaled. "For what it's worth, Sherlock was the first to reach you when we found you had collapsed. He's the one who carried you to the ER after I performed CPR."

Neither of them stated the fact that Sherlock was not here now.

For a few minutes they just sat in silence, until the door was opened by a friendly-looking, white-haired nurse, carrying a tray laden with food. "Hello, dearie," she said pleasantly, setting the tray before Molly. "Here's a good hot dinner to get your strength up. You call if you need anything." With one more smile, she exited the room.

Molly looked at the plate of food before her: hot chicken and vegetable soup, a roll with butter, and a small bowl of chopped fruits. The smell wafting from the soup made her mouth water and her stomach practically kick her for nourishment.

She didn't try to ignore it, and dug into the soup. It had been so long since she had eaten anything bigger than an apple that once she started, it was hard for her to remember to breathe.

"Hey, hey, take it easy," said John with a small chuckle. "You'll only make yourself sicker if you eat _that _fast. Not that I'm telling you to stop, by any means!"

Molly swallowed and gave him a small smile. "I'm going to beat this, John. I beat it once, and I can beat it again. I'm much wiser now too, I hope. I just…can't believe I let myself go to such a dark place again…" She sighed and began eating again, but much more slowly.

John didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to keep her talking, for she certainly needed to do that in order to really get better. God knows if his sister had opened up back then, she could have not fallen so far into the bottle. But the other part of him didn't want to push her; despite the new understanding between them, their friendship was still very new. So, he decided to choose a safer option.

"So…are you going to go anywhere during your time off?"

Molly nodded. "My hometown. I want to do my repentance, be on familiar ground again, and get out of the city for a while. I would tell you but…" She gave a tiny, apologetic smile.

John nodded and patted her hand. "Say no more. And I'll make damn sure he doesn't try to go after you."

Molly rolled her eyes. "If he does, it will probably be for that precious liver he wants," she muttered before biting off a big chunk of her roll.

"Will you at least text me every once and a while? So I can know you're okay or if you need anything?"

Molly seemed a bit surprised but nodded. "Sure, if you really want me to."

"I do. Like I said, us club members have to look out for each other."

They laughed, shared the bowl of chopped fruit, and enjoyed the beginning of a beautiful friendship.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

The sun had set a while ago by the time John got back to 221B Baker Street. He had stayed with Molly a little longer after she had eaten her dinner, and watched a period drama that was playing on BBC1 on the TV in her room. After it had finished, Molly had insisted he go back home and get some rest.

"It's alright, John," she said. "I'm quite tired, actually."

John nodded. "Yeah. A full night of rest on a full stomach is just what you need." He got up from his chair and stood over here. "So…you'll let me know how you're doing? And when you're coming back?"

Molly nodded. "I promise." She paused. "John…thank you so much."

John smiled. "Anytime, Molly." He bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead, like a big brother would. "Get well soon."

"I will."

Now John was getting out of a cab and looking up at the windows of the flat. He could see the silhouette of Sherlock in the middle one, wearing a dressing gown and playing his violin. John could just hear the slow, mournful but beautiful tune he was playing. _Certainly makes a nice change from when he just scrapes the bow across the strings to make noise. _

When he entered the building, he saw that the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat was open. He peeked in and called, "Everything alright, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, hello, John dear!" she said, walking in from her kitchen wearing a floral apron. "I'm fine, I just left the door open to hear Sherlock's pretty music while I bake. Never heard this one before, so it must be something new. I'll bring up some biscuits for you when they're done."

John smiled. "Thanks." He walked up the stairs towards 221B, the music growing in volume as he did so. It really was a lovely piece of music. He'd never heard Sherlock compose before. While he was glad that the man had some kind of creative outlet, like any normal human being, that didn't mean that John wasn't furious with him about this whole situation, especially when he thought about the day Molly had introduced them to "Jim from IT" and how Sherlock had reacted when he'd gone.

So, when John entered 221B, he did so quietly so as not to alert Sherlock. It didn't; he kept on playing. So John went into the kitchen, made himself a cuppa, and then settled himself into his armchair with a newspaper. Even after he heard the music stop, he ignored Sherlock. Both he and Molly had agreed that one thing Sherlock couldn't stand was being ignored, so that's exactly what John did. _He deserves worse, anyway. _Even when Sherlock sat on the coffee table facing John, giving him his best death glare that demanded attention, John continued to ignore him.

Finally, John heard Sherlock mutter, "Oh, for God's sake," before the detective snatched the paper roughly out of the doctor's hands. John merely rolled his eyes before glaring at Sherlock. It took a lot of strength not to smirk at the bruise forming on his left cheekbone.

"Are you going to tell me how she is or not? You obviously want to." Sherlock's voice was that of an impatient and volatile child.

John just glared at him calmly. "Why? Haven't you deduced that already?"

"I'm trying to be polite, John!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Besides, contrary to what some believe, I am _not _a mind reader. If she were in mortal danger, you would not be so calm, but beyond that, I do not know, so tell me!"

John's calm glare hardened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You tell me something first," he said, his voice deadly calm and cold, rage boiling just below the surface. "Tell me why you would mock her about putting on three pounds when she has a history of dealing with eating disorders. Tell me why you would blame her for what happened with Moriarty, causing her to relapse, and starve herself for two months until finally giving you what you deserve causes a damn _panic attack_!"

The doctor got up from his armchair in disgust and walked into the kitchen, carrying his now empty tea cup with him. He didn't want to stick around for an indignant, uncaring reaction from Sherlock, not now; there was too much danger he would punch the man-child. But when he turned to exit the kitchen, he found Sherlock standing in the doorway looking lost and confused. "…I didn't know…" was all the detective could think of to say, his voice hollow.

John only rolled his eyes and turned back to the sink, deciding to vent his anger by scrubbing up a few dirty dishes. "Oh, don't give me that, Sherlock! You've known her for a lot longer than you've known me, and you already know my entire life history! Though maybe it shouldn't surprise me that you didn't know. After all, in your eyes, she's nothing more than the pathologist who sneaks you body parts, gives you access to anything, and doesn't count to you at all!"

"SHE DOES!"

It was impossible to say which of the two men were more shocked at Sherlock's outburst, but it was safe to say that Sherlock was just as frightened, as well. John, meanwhile, felt relief with his shock. Looking at Sherlock, John believed him. This outburst, the terror Sherlock had shown when they had found Molly, how tenderly he had carried her to the ER, how he pleaded with the nurses, the music Sherlock had been composing…oh, yes, it was quite clear to John now.

But what was also clear was that Sherlock was in no way in any position of understanding of acceptance to that fact.

So, John heaved a heavy sigh and approached the consulting detective. "They're keeping her overnight, and then tomorrow morning she'll be out of London for at least a month for a well-deserved holiday to get her strength and spirit back. Sherlock, if she counts to you at all, you'll leave her alone."

For three seconds, Sherlock stood frozen as John's words sunk into his exceptional brain. Then he walked to the couch, threw himself on it, and put his hands under his chin. He was now in his Mind Palace. John exhaled, thinking of no other place that Sherlock should be.

Knowing that a "good night" or any other words would be lost on his friend now, John yawned and walked up the stairs to his bedroom.

* * *

_If she counts to you at all, you'll leave her alone…if she counts to you at all, you'll leave her alone…if she counts to you at all, you'll leave her alone…_

John's words kept echoing inside of Sherlock's mind ever since he said them. So why was he now walking to St. Bart's hospital in the middle of the night?

This whole situation with Molly had been frustrating him ever since Jim/Moriarty had come into the picture, and what happened today…Sherlock felt the walls he had built around his heart that he claimed not to have come crumbling down, brick after brick after brick. He didn't like it – not one bit. Molly didn't – _couldn't _– mean anything more to him than she had been before any of this happened. He had sworn off these kinds of feelings and relationships a long time ago, for a long time ago he had learned that they only lead down one of two roads, even both: distraction and heartbreak.

Having feelings for Molly would only be a distraction, and he would only hurt Molly more than he already had in the end. What good could possibly come of it?

So why had he now stormed into the hospital and charmed one of the nurses into telling him Molly's room number? Well, that was simple: one must perform an experiment in order to prove a theory. Seeing Molly would merely reaffirm that nothing was different between them, nothing at all. Jim Moriarty had merely done what he always did: cause trouble for him. But now it was over, and things could go back to normal.

They had to. They just had to.

But all it took for Sherlock's theory to be shattered was for him to open the hospital room door and look at his pathologist sleeping in the hospital bed.

Had she always been so tiny? Did she merely seem that way now with the knowledge he now had. She certainly was thin, even thinner than him, and he barely ate as it was. He remembered how light she had felt in his arms…too light, too fragile, as if she might break if he held any tighter. And that was all _his _fault.

Not good, _very _not good.

Very slowly and quietly, his feet carried him right up to the bed, until he stood right beside her.

Up close, he felt a little relief. Her expression was peaceful, and there was a healthy pink in her cheeks, not the furious red when she had screamed at him or the death-white when she had been unconscious. He'd never seen her hair out of a pony-tail, bun or braid before…he liked it. A strand was hanging over her forehead and close to her eye. Without thought, his hand reached out and brushed it away.

The skin beneath his fingertips was soft and warm, and again, he couldn't stop himself. Very carefully and gently, so as not to wake her up, he let his fingertips travel over her forehead again, down her temple and to her cheek, until he was lightly cupping it. Molly smiled in her sleep and unconsciously leaned into his hand.

Sherlock had never felt this sensation before…he felt as pleasantly warm as her skin, while in every point of contact between his hand and her skin there seemed to be a lightning storm.

He was so lost in this sensation that he didn't notice her eyelids fluttering until they began to open after he removed his hand.

In the next second he was running from the room. But this time, along with that terror he felt exhilaration, the image of her pink cheeks and sleepy smile seared behind his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

May had always been Molly's favorite month. Spring was in full bloom, literally, after March and April had seasoned it with rain, wind and storms that chased the last shreds of winter away. However, living in London made that easy to forget, unless she took a walk in the park. This fact about May was much easier to remember when in Clovernook. Here, when she walked outside, she could always smell pure nature. Whether that be freshly fallen rain or flower blossoms waving in the breeze, the air always smelled sweet in her hometown this time of year.

When she stepped out of the tiny train station and took a deep breath of the Clovernook air, Molly was reminded of how much she had missed that. Since her father had died five years ago, Molly had only come back to Clovernook once a year on the day of his death, and that was in March. Four out of five times it had been raining, and when it hadn't it had been sleeting. No time to smell the air when you were trying to keep from being soaked and freezing.

Molly had a feeling that this would be just the first on the list of things that she had forgotten she'd missed about this place.

The young pathologist arrived in her hometown by mid-afternoon. John had been right: the full night of sleep on a full stomach had done her worlds of good. She had only had one dream, which had consisted of Sherlock standing over her and touching her face quite tenderly. While this was in no way an unpleasant dream at the time, Molly hated thinking about it now. _Attached to my heart like a tick indeed…_

By early evening, Molly was completely unpacked and was now slowly walking the streets of Clovernook. In London, whenever she took a walk, she always had her iPod with her, both to drown out the noise of traffic and to let any passersby know to leave her alone. But she didn't have it with her now for she didn't need it. No such traffic noises permeated the sweet-smelling air here, and anyway, she didn't need her iPod when Adele's "Hometown Glory" kept playing over and over in her head.

_All the wonders of my world…all the wonders of my world…_

Perhaps she was being overly nostalgic, but if there were any place where being nostalgic was welcomed, it was when you came back to your hometown. She would have plenty of time to be even more nostalgic in the coming month. Right now, she had somewhere to go, for though she walked slowly with a heavy heart, she had a destination.

After making a pit stop in D'Angelo's Flower Shop, Molly arrived at the cemetery near St. Benedict Catholic Church. She moved along the rows of gravestones with no effort, knowing exactly where she was going. Finally, she arrived at her destination, and collapsed on her knees in front of it after scattering the flowers she had brought there over the three graves of her family.

Her actions over the past two months had never hit her with more ugliness or shame when she read the names of her family, etched in stone for eternity but never to return to her again.

She stayed there until twilight settled, crying and apologizing over and over again in repentance, for that was what she needed to do.

* * *

It had been ten years since Sherlock had been to Holmes Manor in Surrey.

After his mother had passed away, there had been no reason to go, especially if Mycroft were staying there, as he often did. Even before that, he hadn't gone there often. Not since he was a small child had he lived there on a daily basis. Then boarding school, university and London had laid claim to him, keeping him away from his family home except on holidays.

So why was he watching it grow bigger as the cab took him through the gate and up the long driveway?

He let himself in, since being a Holmes gave him no reason to knock, no matter how long it had been since he'd last been here. If any of the staff noticed his arrival, he didn't let himself notice any of their astonished looks that Master Sherlock had returned. His mind was set on his destination on the second floor – a suite of rooms that had not been occupied for ten years.

Opening the door, Sherlock could have sworn that the scent he had always associated with his mother swept over him – her Dior perfume, her lilac soap, and that comforting mother smell no words could describe but could always soothe him. Quickly, Sherlock shut the door and breathed it in. Could her scent still linger in this place after ten years, or was it only his Mind Palace pulling up those memories because he couldn't bear being in this place without it? He didn't care; just as long as he could at least remember it.

His eyes fell on the grand piano, now covered by a white sheet, which he promptly pulled off with a swish, dust particles speeding and dancing in the sunlight coming in through the window. His fingers slid along the beautiful instrument, which really was a reflection of music itself: geometric and logical in shape, yet so beautiful to behold that cut right to the heart. He didn't try to touch or play any of the yellowing keys, and not only because they would be out of tune after so long. His mind already flooded with Chopin, Mendelssohn, Rachmaninoff, and her own compositions most of all.

They echoed in every hall of Sherlock's Mind Palace, as well as the memory of her scent, as his feet carried him to the bedroom. In the doorway, he paused as he took in the room before entering it. His fingers ghosted over the perfume and cosmetics on the vanity table. When he felt his legs beginning to shake, he let himself sit down on the stool there.

His eyes turned to the canopy bed, and memories hit him at a speed without mercy. Shadowy snatches of when he had been so small, running to her when he'd had nightmares, and how she'd always had open arms to receive and soothe him. How he would run in here when he needed to feel safe; even if she hadn't been there, she would always come.

What he remembered most vividly, sitting in this room again after ten years, was his mother's face when she looked at him. No matter the situation, even when she was not happy with him, the love and understanding she felt for him were always right there, always there for him to feel. Looking at the bed, Sherlock remembered the one time he had come in upon his mother weeping there, because of what his bastard of a father had done.

This made him think of Molly. How she used to always look at him with adoration and understanding…how often had he made her cry like his mother had?

There was nothing Sherlock could do in that moment, in that place, in those circumstances, after what had happened, to stop the long overdue tears and sobs from tearing out of his body.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

As a place to stay, Molly had chosen a small, cozy, but very excellent Bed & Breakfast, located across the street from Wildwood Park, which had been her favorite place as a child. It had not only been the location, the size, and the style of the place that had attracted Molly to it, but also because the owner, Anna MacDiarmid, knew her very well.

The two women now sat in the kitchen of the B&B, the tea and biscuits long since consumed, on the tail-end of a very long talk. While they exchanged letters about once a month, and Molly always came to visit her when she came to town once a year, it had been five years since the two of them had really sat down for a heart-to-heart.

It was just what Molly needed, and she held nothing back from the good woman who knew her very well about the past two months. By the time Molly was finished, she felt exhausted, and her head rested on the table while Anna's hand gently stroked her head.

"Well…" was all the older woman could say at first. What Molly had told her was quite overwhelming, and her heart was full of compassion. She had watched and helped Molly battle this demon fifteen years ago, and she had been confident that Molly would be strong enough never to be beaten by it again, especially when she managed avoid that when her father died. But it seemed this Sherlock Holmes was truly a terrible force of nature to have broken Molly so badly.

Molly let out something between a growl and a sigh, banging her forehead against a table. "How could I have been so stupid? All the hard work, all the promises, all out the window over a man…an extraordinary one, but still, just one man…"

Anna reached out and gently stroked Molly's head, hot from crying and heavy from exhaustion. "Stop that now. You cannot place all of the blame on yourself. If this Sherlock is really as clever and perceptive as you describe, than he is a cruel man indeed to hurt you so deliberately with his words. Not only his comment about you putting on weight, but the way he told you about this Jim, on the anniversary of your father's death!"

Molly gave a shuddering sigh, now resting her cheek on the table while Anna continued to stroke her head in comfort. Big doe-brown eyes met even bigger blue-grey ones. "What am I going to do? I came here to hide away for a while, but I can't do it forever. When I come back, he will probably carry on as if nothing ever happened…and I won't be able to stop myself giving him another smack when that happens."

"He would deserve it," said Anna firmly. "And he deserved that reaction from you long before it happened." The older woman gave a sigh and leaned in a bit closer to Molly, wiping a stray tear that had fallen down her nose. "My dear, for five years I have read your letters, and this man has been the topic you love to write about most. I am sure that he is every bit as brilliant as you describe, considering how the police come to him, rather than the other way around. And I'm sure he does a great deal of good solving those mysteries and crimes. But, Molly, any man who treats you like this is not worth so precious a gift as your heart!"

For a moment, Molly was still. In the next moment, she was taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then she closed her eyes as she said, "I know…I know you're right…" She opened her eyes and caught the older woman's gaze and smiled. "I have a monumental task ahead of me in tearing him from my heart. I'm glad I'll have some help."

Anna smiled. "Take advantage of this time home, dear. Do what you haven't had the time to do in a long time."

Something in Anna's eyes made Molly give a smile. She knew exactly what Anna was referring to. Sure enough, Anna pulled something metallic, blue, and the length of a pen from her pocket and held it out for Molly to take. Molly returned the smile and took the object. "Ramona's is still open, then?"

"Do you really think that shop would go away while she has a breath in her body?"

The two women laughed and embraced. _Yes,_ thought Molly. _I'm really going to be all right._

* * *

Sherlock came down the main staircase of his family home slowly, his feet feeling heavy as lead and his entire being exhausted. He had not had a good cry since he had been a child. Even when his mother had passed away, Sherlock had not given into his emotions. He now found that a good cry had been…necessary. His head was heavy, but his mind was clearer and moving at a more normal pace. Though he hated to admit it, Sherlock concluded that giving into one's emotions once and a while, when they became overwhelming, was…necessary in order to clear one's mind.

As long as it was done in absolute privacy and without anybody else gaining knowledge of it, that is.

But when he came to the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock saw that would not be an option tonight. For there stood his brother, leaning on his umbrella with his ankles crossed in his customary dramatic pose, looking at him with a piercing gaze that saw everything Sherlock wanted to hide.

In reaction, Sherlock growled, rolled his eyes, and muttered spitefully, "I should have known you'd come to check on me." He sulked to one of the windows in the entrance hall, fixing his gaze on the dark night outside. Though Sherlock knew that his brother – or John, if he'd been here – could see he'd been crying just by looking at him, that didn't make him feel any better. He heard and saw, reflected in the glass, Mycroft approach him from behind.

Unexpectedly, Mycroft pulled out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and held it out to Sherlock over his shoulder. "Just the one."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the cigarette. "Why?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Welcome home," was all he said, but Sherlock could hear everything that went unsaid in those two little words, and the worry that tinged each one of them. So, he begrudgingly but gratefully (after his fit, the cigarette looked _extremely_ appealing), Sherlock took the cigarette and put it in his mouth, lowering his head so Mycroft could light it. "Albert will have a fit when he smells the smoke in here and not one of the private rooms," said Sherlock, referring to the old butler that had been with the family since before either had been born, before inhaling and exhaling the smoke of his first drag deeply.

Mycroft smirked. "It certainly won't be the first time we have broken one of the household rules. Besides, I would give this to you wherever we were…be it Baker Street, for John's fits only last for so long…or the morgue, where there's only so much damage you can do."

Mycroft's loaded last words felt like kicks straight to the gut. _Only so much damage I can do…and I did it a hundredfold…_The image of Molly's unconscious and malnourished form on the morgue floor flashed before his eyes, and he suddenly felt sick.

He thought of Molly, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade…these seemingly ordinary people who did the befuddling and extraordinary thing of caring about him. "They all _care _so much," he murmured, saying the verb as if he didn't quite know what that entailed. He looked at his brother's reflection in the windowpane. "Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?"

Their gazes caught in the glass's reflection, and then Mycroft turned and began walking towards the drawing room. Sherlock, almost on autopilot, followed. His mind palace brought forth memories from years ago, of two young boys being led into this room after playing pirates in the gardens, preparing to be either scolded for getting dirty or praised for keeping the ruckus outside. This time, however, it was two men who came into the now-empty room. Mycroft walked to the antique fireplace, and looked up at the objects that hung over it. Sherlock followed suit, doing the same thing.

Above the fireplace were two painted portraits; one of a man who bore a striking resemblance to Mycroft, and one of a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Sherlock. This was the closest thing to a family reunion that could happen now, with both portrait subjects long dead. As Mycroft spoke his next words, the atmosphere was heavy with two things: the tragic story of the two painted people, and the warning laced heavily in Mycroft's tone for his little brother.

"All lives end…All hearts are broken…Caring is not an advantage…" His head turned to his little brother, whose gaze was fixed on the painted face that looked so like him. "Sherlock."

Four tense seconds passed, and then Sherlock gave a distasteful exhale, now looking at the cigarette. "This is low tar!"

Mycroft shrugged, but his gaze was still piercing. "Well, you barely knew her."

Sherlock's head turned sharply to Mycroft, and they looked at each other square on for four seconds. Sherlock's blue-green eyes were full of fire; Mycroft's blue-grey eyes were full of ice. They seemed to have an entire, in-depth conversation (or battle) in those four seconds of silent, tense eye contact. Then, as suddenly as he had turned his head, Sherlock turned his body and swept out of the drawing room.

When he heard the front door to the manor slam shut, Mycroft was pulling out his phone and dialling a number that was becoming all too familiar.

* * *

On the first ring, John answered Mycroft's call. He'd been waiting for this second call ever since the first this afternoon, when Mycroft had informed him of where Sherlock had gone and how many years it had been since he'd gone there. This put John and Mrs. Hudson on alert, considering what had happened yesterday, and both had to be prepared for anything after what had happened.

"Well?"

"He's just left. Have you found anything?"

John sighed. "No. Did he take the cigarette?"

"Yes."

John shut his eyes for a moment as Mrs. Hudson came back into the living room. "Shit." He turned to her. "He's coming back in about an hour or two."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "There's nothing in the bedroom."

John turned his full attention back to his phone. "Well, it looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No…but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."

"Of course. We'll keep an eye on him."

"Thank you."

"What happened, Mycroft?"

John heard the older Holmes sigh and then say, "He's not going to let her go." The line went dead.

"Mycroft?" John tried, but it was too late. Hearing Mycroft say that, John didn't know what to think because he didn't know what Mycroft meant, even if it was good or bad. Either way, John resolved to keep a closer eye on his friend from now on.

In the next moment, John's text alert noise rang, and he immediately pulled it out, expecting it from Sherlock, but it wasn't. It was from Molly.

_Hey, John! Have arrived safely in my hometown, and am staying with an old and dear friend who has seen me through hard times. Just letting you know I am in good hands and not to worry about me. Will keep in touch. Best of luck…Molly._

The doctor smiled at this most welcome message. Not only did this reassure him that Sherlock was leaving her alone (at least for now), but he knew exactly what Molly was wishing him luck with. John prayed he wouldn't need too much of it, for he had no idea how Sherlock was going to behave in the coming month and even beyond, especially considering Mycroft's message.

_Well, John Watson, at least you can say your life is anything but boring away from the battlefield._

* * *

**A/N: **_Sorry this took a while, guys! The conversation was so hard to write (considering how those two are), so in the end I had to take dialogue from Scandal in Belgravia. Hope you like it, and please leave a review!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

Thankfully, that night did not turn out to be a danger night – though it did come close. When Sherlock came back, John padded him down without mercy, and Mrs. Hudson disposed of the cigarettes right away before Sherlock could protest. However, after the emotionally-draining afternoon he'd experienced, Sherlock did not have nearly enough energy to put up a good fight, so he just went to his room and shut the door. Later, Mycroft would call John and tell him that Sherlock had nearly gone to a cocaine dealer when back in London, but he'd restrained himself.

This both relieved John and scared him deeply. That Sherlock would think of resorting to cocaine after years of staying clean truly made John realize just how deeply this situation with Molly was affecting him. John knew more than most what witnessing something traumatic can do to one's subconscious and equilibrium, so he was keeping his promise to keep a very close eye on his best friend. Lord knows he did not want Sherlock to go down that kind of dark path.

Thankfully – or, perhaps, unfortunately – keeping an eye on him was not turning out to be a hard task. Sherlock had confined himself to the flat for a week, and was making no effort to go out. Lestrade had tried to lure him out with cases, but he refused. No experiments were being done in the flat because he refused to go to St. Bart's (this John could understand). He just sulked around the flat, either lying in bed or on the couch, plucking or composing heartbroken music on his violin, or just pacing and staring, hardly ever saying a word. He was getting plenty of sleep, but only ate when John and Mrs. Hudson would threaten force-feeding or informing Mycroft. On top of that, he was not showering or shaving, and only work his dressing gown, a t-shirt and pajama pants, or a sheet.

All in all, he was behaving like a sulking teenage boy who'd just been dumped, and John knew that if this didn't change soon, he would have to do something drastic. What he _did _know was that he would _not _bother Molly with any of this. She had her own demons to fight, and she had been the one who suffered the most in this scenario; Sherlock had brought his own pain on himself, while Molly hadn't. He would _not _impede or slow down her recovery in any way by dumping all of Sherlock's problems on her. Perhaps when she came back, if she were well enough and if Sherlock's behavior hadn't improved, he would bring her up to date. But only if he absolutely had to.

Bottom line: John considered both Sherlock and Molly very good friends now, and he wanted to do everything in his power to get them well and whole, but the way Sherlock was behaving made him feel quite helpless. And that was something John absolutely hated.

* * *

Though the sound was muffled through the closed bedroom door, Sherlock still heard the sound of John's mobile ringing. Irritated, he huffed and turned to lie on his side, his back to the door. No doubt it was Lestrade or bloody Mycroft calling for an update about him and an attempt to get him out of the flat. _Well, too bad for them, I don't feel like going anywhere._

To make matters worse, he could now hear John's muffled voice answer the phone.

"Hello? Oh, hey, Molly! Good to hear from you!"

Sherlock sat up and turned to the door so fast it took closer to a millisecond than a second. His face was instantly alert, almost desperately curious. Quiet as a ghost, Sherlock got off the bed, crept to the door, and opened it just a fraction, all the better to hear. It had been a week since the terrible incident and Molly had fled town. Up until now, she had communicated with John through a few texts (which he had read while John had slept) only. Though all of the texts were promising in terms of Molly's recovery, they were all vague and gave no specifics away.

There was never any mention of him.

But now she was calling! Though he always preferred texting, this would surely get him more information, even if he could only hear John speaking.

"Oh, I'm just fair, can't really complain about myself. What about you? How are you getting on? Really?"

Sherlock held his breath during the twelve seconds Molly replied – which was only silence to him.

"Hey, that's completely understandable, I hear you…"

_Of course he can hear her, unlike me! What did she say? Is she alright?_

"She sounds amazing, Molly. You're really lucky to have someone like that."

_Who? Who is he talking about? Is she helping Molly?_

"Well, it's good that you're getting a chance to take that up again."

_ Take _what _up again? Oh, for God's sake, this is ridiculous! I just want to know if she is alright!_

"Oh, well…he's…um…"

Sherlock felt warmth spread in his chest. _She's asking about me…she is asking about me! _He looked down at himself and felt his scruffy face, cringing. _Oh, God…John, lie!_

"Well, there's not much to say, you know? Sherlock is Sherlock, and I think that says it all."

Sherlock sighed in relief. John was nothing if not the most reliable person and friend one could have. Though it crossed his mind that Molly knowing the state he was in would inform her that he was not faring well without her, his John-conscience told him that she shouldn't have to worry about him when she had to heal herself first.

_Seeing as how she wouldn't have to heal herself at all if it hadn't been for _you.

_Shut up, John-conscience!_

"Well, don't you worry about anything but getting better, okay? I'll talk to you soon. Have a good day. Bye, Molly."

The call had ended. It took Sherlock twelve seconds of standing by the door, perfectly still, to decide his next course of action before engaging in it.

* * *

John ended the call with an exhale of relief. He was very glad to know that Molly was getting better, and was glad he had found a suitable answer to give her about Sherlock. But he couldn't deny that he was very glad that she asked about him. It meant that all hope wasn't lost.

Not even a minute had passed after John had put his mobile down before he heard movement in the direction of Sherlock's bed. He turned his head just in time to see Sherlock emerge from his bedroom and go into the bathroom. The door had barely shut before John heard the sound of the shower running. John grinned and felt great relief. Sherlock had not bathed at all in a week, and if it hadn't happened sooner, John would have locked him in the bathroom.

Feeling hopeful, John went into the kitchen and decided to fix up a brunch big enough for two, since he hadn't had breakfast yet and he hoped that, since Sherlock was willing to bathe, he'd be willing to eat.

Thankfully, this turned out to be absolutely correct. A half an hour later, Sherlock came out of the bathroom, freshly shaved and wearing his dressing gown. He was sniffing the air appreciatively, and his eyes sparkled when he saw John piling bacon, eggs, and toast with strawberry marmalade onto a plate. He sat down at the table, and John had barely set the plate down when Sherlock began devouring the contents without mercy.

John laughed and tucked in to his own plate. "The dead has arisen."

"New case," said Sherlock through a mouthful of bacon.

John's already great mood inflated like a balloon. "Really? That's great! I didn't hear Lestrade call you."

"Not Lestrade," said Sherlock, not pausing in his eating and sounding quite comical with a full mouth. "On the website. We're leaving in an hour for Waterloo Station."

"Brilliant! Where are we going?"

John didn't notice the momentary pause and jerk in Sherlock's movements and the way he avoided eye contact when he replied.

"Oh, here and there..."


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

Meanwhile, in Clovernook, Molly was sitting on a bench in Wildwood Park near the playground. The May weather was beautiful, and the air was as sweet as ever. Ear buds were in her ears, with Beethoven's Emperor Concerto playing, while she diligently crocheted another square for her new quilt.

_Yarn over, go through, loop one, loop two…yarn over, go through, loop one, loop two…_

The steps repeated themselves absently in Molly's mind as she continued to crochet. They didn't really need to announce themselves, for even though it had been a long time since Molly had taken up her hobby, it really was like riding a bike. Anna had been right: Ramona's Yarn & Thread Shop was still open and running. Ramona had even remembered her after all these years, and gave her a discount on her purchases. Since Anna had given her the blue metal crochet hook, Anna had only needed to buy yarn for her new quilt.

Molly had only ever made one quilt in her life (for they took time and commitment), and that had been for her father. That had been when she was sixteen-going-on-seventeen, just after Anna had found out about her problem. She had encouraged Molly to use her hobby in a therapeutic way during their counseling sessions, and Molly found that it was indeed effective. The project had taken six months, using her spare moments between school and sleep. She had used her father's favorite colors, and the end result had been a true accomplishment.

Now, as she made her second quilt, Molly couldn't help but compare the two experiences.

Similarities: Both were products of therapy while trying to overcome her eating disorder; both were granny-square quilts, made my crocheting many granny squares and then sewing them together; both quilts were acts of repentance for her actions, a real proof of her willingness to get better; each quilt was a representation of a task she had to do.

Differences: The first quilt had been a gift for her father, this quilt she did not yet know what to do with; the colors were obviously different; the first quilt had been about reaffirming love, the second was about getting over it.

While her first quilt had been a representation of her resolve to be strong for her father, her second quilt would be a representation of her resolve to cut Sherlock Holmes from her heart.

The colors were a representation of that: light turquoise for his eyes, dark purple for her favorite shirt on him, blood red for his experiments and her anger, and finally black as the connecting color – perfect symbol of how she felt when driven to her eating disorder again.

Molly didn't need to be a genius to know that this would be a beautiful quilt.

She had arrived in Clovernook a week ago, and she was making excellent progress. Her goal was to finish the quilt before returning to London; she only hoped that she would not have to call Mike for an extension in case she needed more time. But somehow Molly doubted that. With so much free time on her hands, Molly took full advantage of any hour she wasn't sleeping in or eating with Anna to crochet. Only when the quilt was finished would she decide what to do with it. Right now it was a tie between sending it to Baker Street or burning it in the lab.

In her peripheral vision, Molly saw someone pass her on the path in front of her bench, and then come back slowly until they almost stood in front of her. Curious, Molly put down her yarn and hook on her lap, and raised her head. Her curiosity immediately piqued to mountain level.

Standing before her was a man about her age, with a body between athletic and slim. He wore red converse, dark jeans, a plaid button-up and leather jacket. He had olive skin, and dark wavy hair. His eyes were a bright green, and were staring at her. When he saw that she had noticed his presence, he jumped a bit and raised his hands slightly. "I'm sorry, miss, I…you just look very familiar to me…"

His accent had a lilt in it…was it French or Italian? _Italian…if it _is _Italian…no, it couldn't be! Could it? _Memories flashed before her eyes in snapshots, coming from her childhood: scavenger hunts in her father's garden…swinging as high as they could on the swing set…passing doodles and notes in class…walking hand-in-hand towards the edge of a stage to take a bow…

Then recognition and disbelief hit her like a ton of bricks. Molly stood up from the bench, her crocheting dropping from her hands to the ground.

"_Roses bloom and cease to be…_" breathed Molly, her eyes filling with tears.

The man's eyes widened in the same recognition, a hand going to his heart. He breathed back to her: "…_but we shall the Christ-child see._" He breathed in a shuddering gasp. "Molly!"

"Leo!" Molly exclaimed, her feet frozen to the ground in pure shock. She never thought she would see her childhood best friend again.

He approached her tentatively, looking for any sign that she might walk away or turn away. She didn't. Then they embraced, their arms tightening around the other with every second as tears spilled down their cheeks.

* * *

John felt stupid for not having discovered the truth until the train announcement.

For one thing, Sherlock had dressed completely unlike himself before leaving the flat. He wore light denim jeans, black converse sneakers, and a white t-shirt under a dark green fleece. When John asked about it, Sherlock only said, "Undercover." John accepted that, but with some confusion. Usually, Sherlock liked to meet (and impress/intimidate) the local forces before diving in.

Then, Sherlock refused to tell them anything else. All throughout the train journey – the tickets of which Sherlock prepaid and handled – Sherlock remained obstinately silent and glued to his phone, his fingers moving rapidly over the keys. John finally gave up and sulked the rest of the trip.

Finally, a train announcement put all of the pieces in his mind together.

_"Clovernook stop! All out for Clovernook, get off here!"_

John's eyes widened and hardened when he heard this, looking at Sherlock, who immediately sat up straight. John recalled his conversation with Molly that morning, and how she had finally told him the name of her hometown.

The train began to slow down, and Sherlock made to stand up, but John was quicker. He leaped up, walked to the compartment door, bolted it and blocked it, facing Sherlock in rage. "_Just what do you think you are doing?_" he exclaimed, using a voice he hadn't used since Afghanistan.

Sherlock, to his credit, sat back down rather than stand up fully and tower over his furious friend. He looked back down at his phone and said quietly, "I just want to see her."

"_YOU SELFISH CLOT!"_ screamed John, making the compartment shake a bit. "Just can't get her back to the morgue serving you body parts fast enough, can you? No matter if you break her self-esteem down again, forcing her back to her demons again, _as long as the great Sherlock Holmes gets what he wants!_"

_Now _Sherlock stood up, but did not attempt to tower over John. "Did I say I wanted her to see me?" he said, his voice holding a calm façade but restless beneath. "Did I say I wanted to interact with her at all? I only want to _see _her, because I cannot go on much longer with my last image of her as being unconscious because of me!" His voice had begun to break, so he took a deep breath and spoke again with a more controlled voice. "Why would I dress like this, unless I didn't want to be recognized?"

John listened to this with his face carefully neutral, but he believed his friend. He just had to be sure. So he took a step towards Sherlock and looked sharply at him. "You give me your word that she won't know you've left London."

"As long as _you _keep your mouth shut, then she won't," was Sherlock's snappy reply (he didn't like being yelled at, after all), but his eyes told John that Sherlock would keep that promise.

* * *

In the next few minutes, Sherlock and John had exited the train station and stepped out into Clovernook. Several passersby spotted Sherlock, and barely tried to hide their giggles as they hurried past.

Sherlock's expression was a very sour pout, all due to the item John had purchased for him in the station gift shop – perched atop his head.

"You just _had _to choose the most ridiculous one, didn't you?" complained Sherlock as they walked down the sidewalk.

John, who was sporting a very flattering Irish cap, just smiled smugly. "She would recognize those curls anywhere, Sherlock. They must be covered up!"

"What kind of hat is it, anyway?" Sherlock looked in the reflection of a store window, while the patrons inside tactfully hid their giggles. "Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"

"It's a deerstalker," said John, who could barely contain his own laughter.

"You don't stalk a deer with a hat! It's got flaps, ear flaps. It's an _ear hat,_ John!"

"Well, the more ridiculous it is, the less she will think that's you," John said, knowing he won the argument.

They hadn't been walking too long when it came time to turn a corner. Sherlock turned it first, and when John followed, he walked right into Sherlock's ram-rod straight back, for he was standing completely still. "Hey, what the hell?" John muttered, and moved to his friend's side to see what had stopped Sherlock in his tracks.

It didn't take John long to find out.

Across the street, Molly Hooper was walking arm-in-arm with a handsome, olive-skinned man. They were talking softly with each other, often smiling; Molly even leaned her head on the man's shoulder when she laughed.

Not until they had turned the corner and were out of sight did John dare look at his best friend. The expression on the pale face reminded John of a stick of wood being bent, just before it snaps.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

The entire return journey from Clovernook to Baker Street, the consulting detective did not say one word. The expression on his face remained permanent throughout: that of a lost little boy just facing the possibility that he may never be found again.

John was very worried now; he would have preferred a Sherlock who ranted and raved in anger, for John knew how to deal with that. True, John had dealt with a Sherlock who stayed silent for long periods of time, but that would be because he was in his mind palace or he had just finished a case. However, there was a big difference between a silent Sherlock and a silent Sherlock who'd just had his heart broken.

John knew that this was _very _bad, not only when Sherlock didn't immediately take off the deerstalker once inside the train compartment, but when Mycroft called the doctor, ordering him not to leave Sherlock alone, and Sherlock made no reaction to it at all. _Yes, when Sherlock does not react to his older brother's concern, something is _very _wrong…_

This convinced John, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sherlock Holmes was very much in love with Molly Hooper.

* * *

When the two men arrived back in Baker Street, Sherlock began walking towards his room like a sleepwalker or zombie, but John grabbed him fast by the collar. "Oh, no, you don't," he said.

Thankfully, this pulled a proper reaction from the consulting detective. "John, what the –"

"You are _not _sinking back into that depression again, Sherlock Holmes. _You_ are going to sit _there_ –" John practically tossed him onto the sofa, "– _I _am going to sit _here_ –" John sat down in his armchair, turning it to fully face Sherlock, "and _I_ am going to tell _you_ to do what you do best."

"Which is?" Sherlock asked with some of his old annoyance after being man-handled as he tossed the deerstalker away like a frisbee, which relieved John.

"To think logically." Sherlock's eyes flared and his mouth opened in indignation but John was too quick for him. "Don't interrupt me, you're going to hear this! When you saw Molly today, you did what you are always telling everybody _not _to do: you assumed. Rather than gather all of the data before forming a theory, you jumped to a conclusion before you had all of the information."

This little speech caused Sherlock to hang his head, knowing that what John said was right. "It's a valid one…" he mumbled.

"Not in my opinion."

Sherlock's head snapped up again, the expression in his eyes desperate and hopeful. "Explain," he demanded.

"For one, the way they were interacting did not indicate romantic involvement. I've seen my sister walk with my father like that before he died. She's obviously close to this man, but I don't think it's romantically close. If it was, they would be holding hands or they would have an arm around each other rather than linked in an old-fashioned way." John paused, and then stopped himself before speaking again.

"That's not all, John, keep going!" said Sherlock, leaning forward a bit.

John sighed, knowing his next words would hurt. "Fine, Sherlock. The second reason is Molly's current situation. She is back in her hometown, surrounded by safe and familiar things, in order to try and piece back together her self-esteem and to become fully healthy again. If Molly was looking for a new love interest, she would have gone somewhere new, not back to her hometown where everyone knows her." John sighed, knowing that his third reason would be the most difficult for Sherlock to hear. "Thirdly…after what she's been through with you, the last thing she would want right now is a relationship with a man."

Sherlock sat still for a minute, then he got up and walked to the window, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. He leaned his forehead against the windowpane.

John gave a heavier sigh, got up, and walked to his friend's side. "Sherlock…you've known Molly longer than me. You can tell a person's entire history of vices in one meeting. You _really _didn't know she battled an eating disorder?"

From the side, he saw Sherlock's face scrunch up, his eyes shutting tightly before he gave an answer in just as tight of a tone. "No…I don't know…If I did know, I must have deleted it at some point as irrelevant, because that didn't stop her from being excellent in her job and helping me…"

John did not respond, but gave Sherlock a hard look, as if weighing his answer word for word. Sherlock turned his head to John, saw the look, and said, "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because what you said to Molly about domestic bliss suiting her was a little too close to an open wound for coincidence in my mind."

"I may be an ignorant fool about women compared to your experience, John, but even _I_ know that commenting on a woman's weight is _never_ a good thing."

"Then _why_ did you say that to her?"

"_I don't know!_" Sherlock turned back to the window and almost slammed his forehead against the windowpane again.

But John would not let up. He would get Sherlock to admit his feelings, whether he liked it or not, or else he would only sink into a deeper slump than before. "Yes, you do, Sherlock," said John, in a quiet and soothing voice – which was necessary, since Sherlock looked ready to burst. "It's all there, in your head and in your heart. Just find it and say it."

Sherlock took some deep breaths, and his shaking lessened somewhat. "I was…it was…_Jim _from IT." Sherlock practically spit out the name. "I hated how he talked to her, touched her back, made her believe he was interested in her when all the while…even before he revealed himself…I couldn't…_stand_ him being near her."

"Do you always feel this way about Molly's romantic interests?" asked John patiently.

Sherlock remained silent for a few minutes, and John could see him going through every scenario which involved Molly and another man, from just hearing about him or actually meeting him. Finally, Sherlock spoke: "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because…no one was ever worthy of her…"

"You were jealous." Sherlock opened his mouth to deny it, but when nothing came out, John continued, "You were jealous seeing Molly with another man because you couldn't stand the thought of her being with anybody else."

"Because I love her."

John's eyes widened and he staggered back in surprise. John thought that it would take hours of patient persuading for Sherlock to even come close to saying those words. Sherlock looked at John. "You're surprised?"

"That you admitted it out loud, yes," said John. "I knew you must have feelings for her last week, after seeing how you reacted to her collapsing, but it wasn't until today I realized just how deep those feelings run. How long have you known?"

Sherlock gave a deep sigh, walked to the sofa, and laid down on his back. John walked back to his armchair. Their positions reminded John of the therapist/patient cliché, and boy did it feel like it. But anything Sherlock had to say John was more than willing to listen.

"Do you recall what Moriarty threatened me with if I did not leave him alone?" asked Sherlock after a few minutes of silence.

"Um…that he would burn you, right?"

"More specifically, that he would burn the heart out of me."

John nodded, remembering. "And when you said you've been informed you don't have one, he said –"

"_We both know that's not true_," murmured Sherlock, almost to himself before speaking up again. "When he said that, Molly's face…it was all I could see for a moment. I feared what he could have done to her, what he might still do to her. The moment we were safe again, all I thought about was going to her, help her if she needed help or just be assured she was alright and that she would break all ties with him."

"And you did," said John. "But answer me something, Sherlock. Molly told me that, when you came to her apartment, you told her that _I _had forced you to do that. Why did you lie to her?"

"Because when I saw that she was perfectly alright, and learned that she had already broken things off with him, I felt so foolish and stupid for how I behaved. I lashed out at her as a result…I said things I should not have said…"

"Like _that's _anything new," said John wryly. "And then you spent the next two months either ignoring, denying or attempting to destroy your feelings for her, correct?"

Sherlock nodded, staring at the ceiling. "When you said I blamed Molly for Moriarty, I realized that she may think that, too, and I wanted to clear that up right away and get everything back to the way it was before…and you know what happened next…"

"Mm-hm," said John, nodding. "So…you learned your feelings when you found her unconscious."

Sherlock shook his head. "That is when I knew that whatever I felt for her was something that could not be willed away. Not until I was in my mother's room again was I able to put a name to it…that's why I went back there…I needed an answer I couldn't deny, and I never could hide anything from her…"

John nearly felt overwhelmed. This was the longest he had ever seen Sherlock be so…_human_. He took a deep breath, and decided to just get right to the heart of the matter, for he didn't know how much longer Sherlock would last like this without closing up again. He leaned his forearms on his thighs, folded his hands together, and looked at his friend, and said, "Well…now you know how you feel, what do you intend to do about it?"

It was a long minute before Sherlock responded. "Perhaps it would be better if I left her alone for good…she deserves better than me…all I've ever done is hurt her…"

"Bullshit."

Sherlock turned his head towards John quickly and, like before, demanded: "Explain."

"First of all, Molly may be a very patient and tolerant person when it comes to you, but she is _not _a masochist. If all you've ever given her is pain, she wouldn't have lasted three years knowing you. Secondly, neither of you will be able to move on until you at least talk this through with each other, no matter the result. You know now what happens when you try to keep something this powerful bottled up and hidden away. If you don't speak to Molly about this, you'll regret it, _really _regret it."

John could see in Sherlock's eyes that he was listening to every word. The detective then asked quietly, "But what if her feelings are not the same as mine? What if I have ruined them indefinitely? What if all she felt was mere infatuation that I managed to destroy before it could ever become more?"

The doctor shook his head and gave Sherlock a small, sad smile as he said in a gentle tone: "When I talked to her in the hospital, I learned that her biggest reason for relapsing was because she blamed herself for Moriarty managing to corner you, and because she thought you now hated her. You don't feel that kind of deep despair if you only have an infatuation." He saw the devastation pass over Sherlock's features, and plowed on to the more hopeful part of his speech. "But you _can't _give up now. If she truly hates you, she wouldn't have asked about you when I spoke to you today. If you truly love her, Sherlock, you'll let her decide for herself whether or not to accept you. And to do that, make sure you both have _all _the information you can give. You have three weeks to prepare for that before she comes back to London, so I ask you again: what is Sherlock Holmes going to do?"

Sherlock slowly sat up, leaned his elbows on his knees, and steepled his hands under his chin. Satisfied that he was in his mind palace at work on the problem, John smiled and went into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea.

* * *

It was after dinnertime when Sherlock came out of his mind palace, called John to him, and told him what he planned to do based on a fleeting comment Molly had made to him two years ago.

* * *

**A/N: **_Thank you all for being patient with me! I know you all long for what John proposes: Sherlock and Molly seeing each other again and talking it out. We've got a few more chapters yet before that happens, but it will be worth it – the proper set-up must be made! P.S. The more reviews I get, the more motivated I am to write quicker!_


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